


Chuck Versus the Steampunk Chronicles

by SteampunkChuckster



Category: Chuck (TV)
Genre: Action, Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Androids, Angst, Clocks, Corruption, Dirigibles, Espionage, F/M, Intrigue, Rebellion, Romance, Science Fiction, Toys, Watches, automatons, charah - Freeform, steam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 10:54:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteampunkChuckster/pseuds/SteampunkChuckster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1776, George Washington declared himself King of the United States of America and began turning a new nation into the United States Empire: expanding to the west, amassing colonies and gaining power. Over one hundred years later, the government’s secrets are at risk and a new way to keep them safe must be created. When those secrets are accidentally brought to inventor and toy maker Chuck Bartowski’s doorstep, his future becomes uncertain as his life fills with adventures, hardships, and even a bit of romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> What do you get when you take Chuck and insert it into the steampunkified world of 1896? Hopefully this story. This is the first piece of Chuck fic I ever wrote and it took awhile to gather the courage to post it for that reason. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

****Somewhere near the capitol of the Royal Empire of the United States** **

**1876**

"One hundred years of freedom from the bloody British and this is what we have to show for it?"

Women in rags timidly proffered baskets of half-rotted onions. Children with coal-smudged faces sat behind them, mere piles of bones buried in cloth. The factories towered over the pitiful creatures, spewing black smoke into the early morning sky, soot mixing with clouds, a light mist of burning rain showering down on the city.

"Always so negative," came the deep rumbling reply.

"Always so positive," the small woman snapped back. "Are you looking? Really looking?"

His dark eye roved over the street.

"Our empire is the most powerful in the world, General. How can you say we haven't progressed since George Washington proclaimed himself King of this great nation?" The tall dark-skinned man felt a twinge in his knee and lifted his silver cane, smacking the brass leg beneath his troublesome joint. "We are the _best_."

"Are we, Director?" She sighed and pulled her top hat further over her ears as the river wind burst through the street and set her coat to fluttering behind her. The woman then tugged the coat closer to her body, covering the men's trousers and cotton blouse she wore beneath it. "My priority is protecting the King, and protecting his people. Anything that gets in the way of that…" She paused, starting to walk along the street again. "Well, let's just hope nothing gets in the way of that."

He chuckled darkly. "The way of the world."

She looked over her shoulder. "What?"

"It's the way of the world. Things getting in the way. Things not going according to plan. Mistakes being made. People dying…"

"Politicians being corrupted?" she inserted with some sting in her tone.

"Yes, even that. We just have to soldier on and do our jobs. No matter what, we do our jobs." He glanced at her quickly, taking in the paleness of her cheeks and the set of her hard eyes in her small face. "And we work together. Can you do that, General?"

She stopped suddenly and squinted at something ahead. "Now what in God's name is that?"

He followed her confused gaze with his one good eye.

A thick layer of soot hovered over the rooftops, black tar clouds of poison mingling with the dark filth spewing out of the smokestacks dotting the horizon. This was a common enough sight.

But then he saw the oddity she was referring to.

A large, round object that looked to be made of some sort of black shiny metal was slowly lowering from the clouds and into view. It lingered over the factory two blocks away that served as a front for their underground government facility, more of it coming into view as it sunk down from behind the cloud.

Dozens of ropes spilled over the railings of what was revealed to be a large, black airship silently descending over the buildings. Men cloaked all in black slid down the ropes and disappeared as they dropped to the roof of the factory.

Not a moment later, a loud cacophony of booms sounded and the dusty windows shattered, plumes of smoke gushing out. Flames began to lick at the sky, the horizon glowing red.

They burst into a run at the same time, racing down the street at breakneck speed, dodging the terrified citizens running away from the danger. When they finally neared the factory, with only momentary glances, they broke away from one another—the Director stopping at the front door while the General continued across the face of the building and around the corner.

The Director lifted his cane and tapped the tip of it twice against the stones at his feet.

_Rat tat!_

There was a soft whirring sound as a deadly, sharp blade shot out of the end of the cane. He brandished the cane like he would a spear and used his brass limb to kick down the door.

Flames licked at his long duster and he ignored the suffocating heat as he brought a finger to the tiny panel beside his mechanical eye. He turned the small dial and shut his one functional eye, relying on the map that appeared in front of him from his high-tech goggle.

Still brandishing his spear-cane, he stepped over the debris of unused assembly machines and rushed down the first hallway towards the staircase. He knew it would be foolish to continue underground to their offices and laboratories when the factory above was engulfed in flames.

But it would be still more foolish not to go in this case. In fact, it might lead to the end of the world as he knew it if he did not go. So he heaved the trapdoor in the floor of the back office open and was relieved to find the path clear of smoke.

He had to retrieve the files. Or die trying.

The Director raced down the stairs, ignoring the pain in his knee as he held his weapon at the ready.

He reached the bottom of the staircase and took a few steps into the lobby where he was immediately ambushed by a man who appeared out of the shadows, a gas mask and brass goggles obscuring his features, and wearing a black one-piece suit. The attacker's twisted knife plunged towards the Director, who sidestepped, opened his good eye, and locked his arm around his enemy's.

With a quick jerk of his bicep, a snap was heard in the other man's arm and the cry of pain was muffled behind the mask as he crumpled to the ground in agony. Swinging his cane around, the Director plummeted the blade at the end into the enemy's chest then tugged it back out again, ignoring the gurgling death noises the man made as he stole the gas mask and attached it to his own face, assuming the aggressors, whoever they were, had released some sort of gas.

One did not wear a gas mask to be fashionable, after all.

"Director!"

He spun and came face to face with one of his advisors, also wearing a mask he must have taken from an attacker who no longer had any use for it.

"Branson. Report."

"Seventeen armed men came down from the sky. From the sky! We didn't know they were there. It was an airship, silent, hiding in the clouds for who knows how long, just hovering there, waiting for—"

"Branson, this isn't a dime novel! What happened?"

The man snapped to attention. "Seventeen armed men swarmed the factory, then found the entrance into our base. They unleashed some sort of gas. The factory is on fire, Sir. But the files…"

"The files?"

"I knew I had to protect our secrets, Sir. So I hid them."

"Where?"

There was a loud _ratatat_ of a rifle and Branson fell at the Director's feet, twitching in pain, blood pooling beneath him. "N-Nook, b-behind R-Ra—," came the advisor's last breath as the Director dove around the corner and pulled a shotgun out from beneath his coat.

He reached up and turned the dial at his eye, then swung back into the hallway. Two loud bangs and the sound of a shotgun racking followed.

The Director stepped over the hole-filled bodies of the two masked men he'd just killed. They were also wearing black, with gas masks and goggles, like the first man he'd stabbed. He didn't know who these men were, but he assumed they were from a terrorist organization. They always were. And what they were after? Well, that was a mystery he intended to get to the bottom of. But first, he'd have to secure the Empire's secrets.

He tossed the shotgun behind him, pulled back his coat and grabbed a revolver from his belt holster, stepping into the small boiler room that acted as a hallway into the main lab. He was immediately accosted by steam. The water swooshed through the clattering pipes hanging from the ceiling and the tanks they were connected to glugged noisily.

The Director moved slowly, his eyes darting back and forth, attempting to see into the shadows made by the massive tanks and mess of pipes that surrounded him. Suddenly he lifted his revolver and shot off to the left.

His enemy slumped forward out of the dark shadows, a red hand clutching the gushing wound at his chest. He crashed face first into the ground. A chill went down the Director's spine and he swung around to see a boot kick his revolver from his hand. He lifted his cane to block a wicked blade that swung down at him, simultaneously bringing his knee up into the assailant's ribs. He heard the crack of bone and whipped the man in the face with the cane.

As the terrorist staggered backwards from the blow to the head, his goggles shattered from the impact, the Director dropped to the ground and swept the man's legs from under him so that he dropped like a sack of potatoes.

He was knocked unconscious when he hit his head on the temperature gauges mounted on the tank behind him.

The Director found his revolver and picked it up, ready for anyone else who meant to attack and continued carefully to his destination. He found himself in the lab a mere handful of minutes later. He shot and killed two men rifling through the file cabinets, then waited at the door to see if he could hear more aggressors approaching.

After a tense minute of silence, he rushed to the corner of the lab where a four foot tall bronze statue of the Egyptian god Ra stood. A round orb balanced on his head that was carved with a hawk-like face. A golden snake curled around the orb and bared its menacing fangs, almost as if it was frozen in the middle of lunging to attack.

Holstering his revolver again, he reached up and wrapped his fingers around the smooth neck of the serpent and yanked it down hard. A whirring sound could be heard from inside of the wall behind Ra and a rectangular chunk of the wall collapsed backwards, leaving a small nook. The Director glanced over his shoulder at the entrance into the lab and slid behind the statue to reach into the nook, his fingers feeling around the stone until he found what he was looking for.

He could smell the approaching fire as he tugged the files out of their hiding place and shoved them down the back of his pants. He dropped his coat tails back down and squeezed out from behind the statue, grabbing the snake lever and shoving it into place again. The panel slid forward and the wall was smooth and seemingly untouched once more.

Satisfied, the Director unholstered his weapon and rushed out of the room. Come what may, he was ready to protect the secrets to his last breath.

It meant getting the files out or death in the attempt.

The fire had journeyed from above and now licked at any surface it could find. In hindsight, the construction of the underground facility did not take fire into consideration, he thought to himself as he glanced up at the wood beams of the ceiling.

One of the beams broke as the flames snuck along its length. It swung towards him, and he dove out of the way to avoid getting a burning chunk of wood straight to his face. Coughing and sputtering, the Director continued down numerous hallways, his eye-map activated, and finally emerged in a tunnel, his limbs aching as he maneuvered through the flickering lamp lights that would soon prove to be fatal when the fire reached the gas-filled chamber.

If he didn't get out, he would have to make sure the files were destroyed. He forced images of throwing himself into a wall of fire and letting it engulf him from his mind as he reached a large metal door with a locking wheel attached in its center. He holstered his gun again and set his hands to the wheel.

His attention was pulled from the door when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He pulled his gun out just in time. A terrorist burst around the corner at breakneck speed, a rifle raised to his shoulder.

There was a short report from the rifle and pain radiated through the Director's thigh as he threw himself to the ground to get out of the way. From his perch on the floor, he raised his gun and put two bullets in the man, one in his sternum and the other in his forehead just above his goggles.

Wincing in pain, and purposefully ignoring the graze on his leg, he climbed to his feet and quickly turned the locking wheel, yanking the door open and hurrying over the threshold. He shut the door and locked it behind him, then hobbled painfully up the stairs.

He continued as fast as he could, sweat pooling in his gas mask. Assuming the gas was clear in this building, he ripped the mask off and tossed it away, wiping at his face with the back of his sleeve.

The director hurried up at least three flights of stairs and climbed up a long ladder, pushing through a hatch into the attic. Within moments, he reached the door to the roof.

With an adrenaline-driven grunt in his throat, the Director brought his brass boot to chest level to kick the door down when it swung outward. He blinked at the small woman smirking on the other side, a pair of flying goggles fastened over her startlingly hard eyes. "Try the handle, Director."

He spared her a snarl and swept past her. "Anything on who these bastards are?"

"No correspondence from the Castle yet. The files?"

"And just what do you think _these_ are?" he growled through his teeth, lifting the back of his coat for her to see where he'd jammed them down his trousers.

"There's a medal in this for you, Director."

"Already got enough medals in the war. Don't need another. And General, don't take this the wrong way, but shut your trap and get us out of here, or no one is gettin' any medals!"

They rushed across the roof, slipping and sliding on the tin plates until they reached the small four seater airship, propellers attached at the bottom and a large steam-filled balloon looming above.

The Director and the General leapt into the craft and she set her hands to the controls. "Hold on to your pantaloons, Director. This might be a bumpy flight."

They lifted off from the landing pad as a line of gas-mask wearing henchmen burst out of the door and scattered along the roof, raising their guns to shoot at the aircraft. One of their bullets dinged against the door and the Director swung around so that the rifle he picked up from behind the seat hung out of the ship's porthole.

He fired wildly into the group, hitting a few of them and startling the others into stopping their attack for a moment.

As he continued the cover fire, the General moved the craft towards the south.

Soon the figures on the rooftop were mere dots in the Director's line of sight and he pulled back into the craft and slid into the passenger's seat beside the General. "We're clear."

"Good. Now what the hell was that? Bandages under your seat," she added, noticing the blood staining his pants.

"I don't _know_ what it was," he groused, tearing at his pant leg and starting to clean his wound with the gauze from the tin tucked under the seat. "But whoever they were, I'm assuming they got some intel. Who's to say our other locations didn't receive similar visits?"

"Think they were told where all our secret bases are located? A double agent?"

"Could be. We have to get a message to the King and the Minister of Defense. Immediately."

"First we have to find someplace safe to land."

They were silent for a few minutes, gazes roving the skies around them for any sign they were being followed.

The Director spoke up. "I found a few of them in the lab, looking through the file cabinets. They were after our secrets. I don't know for sure, but it damn well seemed like it." He winced at the turbulence that jarred his leg.

"Yes, well…they didn't get 'em."

"But someday they might," he said darkly.

"Now who's being negative?" Her attempt at humor fell flat and they both knew it, so she continued. "We need a better way to keep our secrets safe. We need to hide them. From everyone. Perhaps even the King himself."

"Hmm. Who knows what might happen if the wrong person got to our secret database?"

"The end of the world as we know it," she murmured cryptically, her mouth a hard line beneath the large goggles covering most of her face. "We need a safe place to catalogue our secrets, a place no one will suspect. Perhaps something that would be in constant motion, something mobile."

"Agreed."

The small airship drifted into the clouds and disappeared, leaving the dark, dingy world and its residents below none the wiser about the catastrophe that had just been avoided.

The factory workers hammered on, the steam-carriages puttered along, and the street cleaners shoveled horse dung into their soiled buckets.

Soon, day would drift into night, and the gaslit streets would come alive with crime. The patrolmen would pace half-asleep, turning a blind eye to the organized crime rings and prostitution and the business fronts behind which violent fights were betted upon. Card games would be lost and won, and opium bartered and consumed.

And when morning broke again, the streets would fill with man, beast and machine.

The King would awaken and devour his breakfast.

The Director and the General would gather the best, most loyal and trustworthy scientists in the United States Empire.

And they would find a better way to protect the world's greatest and most terrible secrets.

Consequences be damned.

* * *

****


	2. The Umbrella is Certainly a Necessity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy, readers extraordinaire!

* * *

**San Francisco**

**1896**

As he waited on the side of the street, Marcus Lane peered up at the umbrella he held over his head. The lamplight glowed eerily through the black fabric stretched tightly over the whalebone ribs, illuminating the raindrops sliding down to drip at his feet.

He stretched out a gloved hand and let the drops of water fall on it. A wan smirk appeared beneath his thin black mustache and he blinked his grey, clear eyes. He was short and balding, in spite of his relative youth at only forty-three years of age. But his cheerful mouth didn't always serve to distract from the tired, almost mechanic stoicism of his gaze.

A few people stood behind Professor Lane, all waiting for the same trolley—two middle-aged spinsters in grey and a tall, bony young man with a straw porkpie hat covering his blonde hair. One of the women complained under her breath about the cacophonous sounds of the factories that surrounded them. Even at this hour of the night, and in the winter rain no less, the gears and pumps cranked and pounded, interrupting what might have otherwise been the still of the night. The sound had always comforted the professor. And he shared an amused smile with the young man, who clearly had no feelings either way about the noises of the city they'd gotten used to hearing as residents of the great city of San Francisco. A blimp whirred overhead, slugging along and leaving a misty blob of steam exhaust behind it.

The glugging sound of an approaching trolley reached his ears. The vehicle skidded on its tracks, rounding the nearby corner and trudging noisily and shakily to a stop in front of the group. "All aboard!" the driver bellowed as he tugged on the brake lever so hard his conductor's hat tipped forward on his head.

They all hopped onto the steps, Professor Lane helping his fellow female passengers up before he climbed onboard himself. The trolley was cramped, so he clawed into the center of the aisle and wedged himself between two rotund businessmen. He'd never fall over with them on either side of him.

The trolley reached his stop fifteen minutes later, and after many Excuse me's and even more Oh pardon Madam's he alighted and wiped his face with his tan handkerchief. As he stuffed it back in his inner coat pocket and righted the top hat on his head, he ambled down the walkway.

He moved through a clump of dockworkers huddled beneath their newsboys and coal smeared dusters, rolling dice along the wet pavement and speaking in hushed tones to each other. Dark, suspicious gazes pinned on Marcus, bloodshot eyes glaring from between the bills of their caps and the upturned collars of their coats, following him as he approached and passed by. The professor made a point to ignore the men, to reassure them he had no intention of calling the nearest patrolman on duty. Granted, the closer one wandered to the docks, the less likely one might be to find a patrolman. And it was quite possible said patrolman would have a stake in the illegal game of street dice.

But the professor prided himself in keeping his nose out of others' business. He had an instinct for what might get him in trouble, and he used it to keep _out_ of trouble. It was a gift, one of his colleagues insisted.

As he left the docks behind and instead entered a less impoverished section of the district, he passed the faded posters lauding the subsequent arrival of some ambassador from somewhere—an ally of the United States. He made a point of ignoring the posters, though, aware of the trouble he might get into if he looked directly at the poster.

And then there were the swaying carriages with large flags waving from the backs, the cherished red white and blue, wet and fluttering limply in the rain. The soft whining of a cello from a window above and the accompanying broken voice of the schizophrenic, homeless woman listening beneath the window, attempting in vain to sing along to a song that existed in a memory that clung to a mostly broken mind.

Finally, Professor Marcus Lane moved up the steps of a two story brick building, pushed the door open, and heard the telltale jingle. "Hello, Prof. Marcus Lane here to see—" The youthful young man looked up from the desk.

"Dr. Terninin will see you now, Professor. If you'll wait here, I'll inform him of your arrival." Without waiting for response, the handsome young man bounded from the front desk and hurried down the hallway and out of Lane's sight.

Not five minutes later, the young man's voice drifted down the hallway. "He'll see you now, Sir!"

The young man was nowhere to be seen, but it wasn't difficult to figure out which room he was meant to go into. The rest were labeled as laboratories or storage closets.

As he walked in, he saw a man with a greying mustache and pointy beard. The man wore a brown tweed suit with a black tie. Round spectacles were perched at the end of his nose. He took them off as he smiled a youthful smile. "So," he said in a small accent that was difficult to discern. "You are the professor." He was either Russian or from one of the provinces nearby. "Come, sit sit."

Prof. Lane did so eagerly. He'd been so nervous about his appointment that he'd foregone supper. Now his stomach growled with a soft whir that reached his distracted ears as the doctor began speaking to him. "I hear you're not sleeping. Is that correct?"

"That is correct, Doctor. It has been a problem for a year or so. I cannot remember if I have ever experienced it before then. My memory leaves much to be desired, I am afraid."

"I see, I see."

"And then I feel heavier. Almost as though m-m-my limbs are difficult to m-move. My feet too heavy to lift some days. I mean, I champion on, of course. I've classes to t-teach."

"Yes, of course, of course. Heavy limbs. I see. And your breathing. Anything wrong with your breathing?"

"No, no. Except…" He stopped. "Oh, I c-can't," he chuckled nervously, aware of the strangely sudden stutter in his speech.

"What is it, Professor? Please, you must tell me or I cannot figure out what to do to help you." Doctor Terninin moved a chair nearby and sat in it, leaning closer.

"You w-will think I'm m-m-mad."

"Professor, I can assure you, whatever it is, I have heard madder. This is my job. Tell me."

Marcus sighed. "Well, I might be lying in bed at n-night, thinking about things and—It has hap-happened a few times where I realize I haven't _breathed_ in a long w-while. I am imagining it, of course. It is humanly imp-impossible. I just…I thought it b-b-best to see a professional."

"Rest assured, you came to the right professional. Any other things I should know about? Things that unsettle you? Leave you anxious, worried, nervous?" He scratched notes quickly in his small notebook.

"Hm…just…hm, one more thing. This started abuh-ab-about a year or so ago w-when my sleeping problems b-began. Sometimes things…appear in my vision."

"Spots?"

"No, no. Images. Things. Buh-buildings. P-People's faces I've never even met or seen before in m-m-my life." He tried to swallow his stutter. "Words. Sometimes they're violent, even."

The doctor's eyes bore into his patient's. "I see. Would you describe these as…flashes?"

"Yes, flashes. Exactly."

"I see. Well, Professor Lane. It is not as bad as you think. You are not suffering from any mental illnesses. No doubt your lack of sleep is the cause for these…visions…as well as the heaviness in your limbs. I suggest you go to the pharmacist and buy some sleeping pills. You will feel good as new once you get a good twelve hours. I shall write you a prescription now, in fact."

Marcus thanked his doctor profusely, took the handwritten prescription, and left the room. The young man he'd met at the desk was nowhere to be found, so he merely blinked and left the building, walking down the wet sidewalk towards his trolley stop.

A few minutes later, he heard quick footsteps behind him that sent a quick flash of something he couldn't identify through him. He turned, automatically clutching the closed umbrella tightly in his fist. But the man in front of him was too fast, having snatched the makeshift weapon from his grip and propping it jauntily on his own shoulder.

It was the young man who'd worked at his doctor's office, except his hair had a greyish tint to it now, almost as though he'd sprinkled dust in it.

"Ah, ah, ah," the young man snarked. "Rather slower response time than I expected. I'd prepared myself for much worse. You must be rusty. Or perhaps rust _ed_."

"Pardon? I'm a—"

"Sorry, Professor." The umbrella was brought down over his head and he collapsed to the wet pavement, blinking hazily up at the face above him, his last conscious thought being how strange it was that he couldn't feel the raindrops that surely wetted his skin.

* * *

****


	3. Artificial Intersectigence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

* * *

When Professor Marcus Lane came to, he found himself strapped to a wooden board that was tilted at a forty-five degree angle from the ground. He was in some sort of underground, windowless workshop. Tools hung from the nearest wall, and iron gears were suspended, immovable, from the ceiling. A single candle was lit on a small table nearby where there were more tools that were a little too wicked for his timid sensibilities. The room smelled rather of cooked pig and hot oil, or perhaps turpentine. Or perhaps all three. And his chest burned much in the same way it did when he drank curdled milk or ate the fish that came from the inner bay and was usually doused in fire sauce by cooks to disguise the strong fishy taste.

"W-Where am I?" he asked with a harsh rasp, his tongue catching against his teeth.

"Ah, Professor. It's good you're up."

He looked around to see where the voice was coming from. Standing a few feet away from him was the young desk attendant from the psychiatrist's office who had attacked him.

"W-Why are you doing this to m-m-me?" he asked, swallowing hard.

"Still a little rusty, Marcus? May I call you Marcus?"

Marcus didn't answer, distracted by the way his mouth tasted like metal and suddenly he decided it tasted like nothing at all. And how strange it was that he couldn't feel his tongue. Or his teeth. Or lips.

The man walked over and held up a pair of pliers. He paused with the instrument poised over Marcus. "Don't worry. There's no possible way you'll feel any of this."

"What is this? What are y—What—What are you doing?" he asked shrilly, finding it difficult to form his words.

"Now just relax. I won't hurt you." He unbuttoned Marcus' vest first, then his shirt beneath that, revealing his pudgy stomach. Marcus began to struggle as the man began sliding his fingers over the soft, pliable skin of his sides. "Should be around here somewhere."

There was a strange clicking noise, at which Marcus began to feel a bit lightheaded. "Wha—What is—?

Another click sounded.

A door opened on his chest, revealing shifting gears and turning cogs. Marcus stared, wide-eyed, at his mechanical insides, his mouth suddenly dry, his lips quivering.

"I'm sorry you have to learn this way, Professor Lane." The sincerity on the handsome face of the young man was unexpected, but not quite as unexpected as the fist-sized clock that was latched into the left side of the cavernous steel compartment that was his chest—where his heart would have been were he human.

"Is this a dream?" his quivering voice asked.

"I am afraid not. We've been looking for you for years, Marcus. We just didn't know you would be so…human."

"I am not human," Marcus breathed, turning his head away in anguish that felt all too real. "It all makes sense now. I have never truly connected with w-women—"

"I do not need to know the details." The man held up his hand and stuck the screwdriver into Marcus' middle. The professor didn't feel a thing. Just regret. And now, understanding. "But there are things I need to know. What do _you_ know?"

"I thought I was human all these years. Ap-pa-parently, I know nothing." The shock was beginning to wear. A part of him had always wondered what was wrong with him, why he'd never felt hunger or thirst. He would eat and drink anyways, of course. It was a human necessity.

"Ever hear of the IEL?"

"The Institution of Egg Lovers?"

The young man smirked and dug around some more in his middle. "Still got your sense of humor, I see. I am talking about the Imperial Espionage League. Her Majesty's own elite agents who safeguard the empire and its assets. You _are_ a professor, aren't you?"

"I teach mathematics, young man."

"Noted. Well, Professor Lane—rather, I should call you Prototype 534—I suppose I will tell you your story, since it seems you do not know it yourself." He paused and set down his tools, pulling up a chair and sitting at the automaton's side. "Ten years ago, after the king's daughter ascended the throne, she tasked the IEL to begin a project that would effectively protect the government's closest-guarded secrets, while also creating a super-weapon at the same time. The Intersect would retain every last secret about our defenses, files on villains and terrorists, every single crime that we'd ever logged in the database for the last…oh, say seventy years…as well as the intimate knowledge of foreign languages, martial arts, and any other skill you could possibly think of, down to the appropriate fashions for certain situations. Rather brilliant, eh?" He scooted his chair closer. "Whoever had the power of the Intersect in his hands would catch a threat against Her Majesty and the Empire immediately, in effect putting a halt to any future danger the villain might pose. Also quite brilliant."

"The Interse-sect?"

"Yes. They first attempted to put it in a handheld device." He lifted a pistol up from the table and showed it to the automaton. "A bit like this. You could point it at that person and all of the information about him or her would be readily available to you. But it was far too perceptible, and therefore too dangerous. Also, it is much too easy for an agent to lose a gun." He paused again. "Then they decided they would construct the Intersect to be put into someone's brain. They traveled around the world, training IEL agents, testing morality and loyalty to Her Majesty the Queen. Testing skill sets like fighting and lock picking and a steady head under pressure. Even the best agents were not trustworthy enough to house the government's most secretive of secrets. Rumor is they tested an agent, put the Intersect inside of his head, and he didn't survive it. So they decided the only thing they could trust with the Intersect was something they themselves could control, something stronger than a human brain to handle that much power. They built an automaton and inserted the Intersect into it. Then they programed someone else's life, someone else's memories, into the automaton, making him believe he was human."

"Prototype 534?" the automaton asked, his voice suddenly sounding lower…and perhaps a bit slower as well. He felt his eyelids droop a bit and his fingers twitch against the board he lay upon. "I'm the Intersssecttt?"

"You are the Intersect. And have been for the last five years."

"Why…do you…come to mmme…now?" Marcus struggled to get out. His energy was dwindling quickly.

"We lost you. Somehow the tracker was disabled. You moved out west without us knowing where you went to…like any normal human man would do, you moved on. You came here to San Francisco and started working at the university, teaching…"

"Mathem-matics," Marcus whispered with a warbled voice. He felt ill.

"Wait, what's…what's going on here?" the IEL agent asked, quickly standing up and peering inside. "Marcus, what are you feeling right now?"

"Feelinnng?" Marcus asked. "Nnnothinng."

"Hellfire! Your gears aren't moving. I can't…" He ran his fingers through his messy brown hair. "I am not good at this. I don't know what to do about a broken machine like…like you. I should have paid more attention in my steamtech courses at the Factory," he began muttering to himself.

He watched as Prototype 534's head began to quiver. His unnaturally human eyes crossed, then twitched back and forth. He spoke in a slow monotone, quite unlike his usual voice.

"B-Bryce Larrrrkinn," he groaned as the agent's eyes widened and he bent closer to the automaton. "Agennt in Herrr Majestyyy's servicce, Immmperialll Espionage Leeeague. Recruited in 1884 frommm Her Majesty's Airforce Academy. Bornn in Los Angelesss. Parents unnnknown. 1888—killed Japannnese terrori—" But the rest died on his tongue as his eyes cleared and he shook his head. "W-What is this? What amm I sayinnng?" he asked, licking his lips to no consequence.

"You are winding down fast, Marcus. We've got to get you to someone who can fix you."

"Wwwhat do you mmmean by…'winding downnn'?"

"It is like when a human being _dies_. But the…machine equivalent."

"I…amm…dyinnnng?"

"You are dying. I don't know why we couldn't find you faster. Your prototype was one of the first of its kind. It was not built to last longer than three years. It is a miracle you lasted five."

"But I—"

"Hush! I'm thinking." Agent Larkin began pacing, then he turned and watched the automaton with narrowed eyes. "I've got it. But we haven't much time to get you there. If I can't get you to Los Angeles in less than three days, you will break down. You will die, Marcus."

"And…" Marcus' throat constricted and he whizzed with a choppy whirl of gears. "…what of it?" His head fall back against the board forlornly. "What have I t-to live forrr? I ammm a damned muh-mm-machine."

"Whatever genius thought it would be witty to program you as a martyr can go rot in hell," Agent Larkin muttered, clasping the door on 534's chest shut and untying the automaton's hands and feet. "In all honesty, whether you live or die wouldn't even make me bat an eye if it weren't for the Intersect."

Larkin tucked himself under the automaton's arm and helped him walk to the table where he had left his umbrella and hat.

"Justtt take it out of mme when I d-die…or mmmalfunction, ratherr…" the morose machine mumbled.

"Cut the jabber, will ya? I'm gettin' chills listening to you slur like that." Larkin said. Then he poked at 534's stomach. "Why they decided to put so much extra fat there, I'll never know."

"That's a bit…rrrude, you know. I rrrealize I'mm…just a mmmmachine…to you, b-but…I sssstill have feelings. At least…I ammm programmed…w-with feelinnngs. And that…hurt themmm."

"Look, I _am_ sorry. Just button up. We have to leave. Now."

"You nnnever…answered mmmy…questionnn. Why couldn't…you just t-t-take…the Intersssect…out of me whennn…I die?"

"Because that's not how it works. To safeguard our secrets, they programmed the Intersect to die along with whatever cell it resides in. You die, _it dies_. That is my last resort and I'd like to avoid that outcome if at all possible."

Together they rustled up their things and stepped out into the streets of San Francisco. They had a long journey to Los Angeles and time was running out—faster than either of them had any way of knowing.

* * *

****


End file.
